


Emperor's Punishment

by Aegwynn



Series: Visions of the Void [1]
Category: Warcraft, Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft (Comics), World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst, Degradation, Hand Jobs, Light BDSM, M/M, Riding Crops, Shameless Smut, Smut, Tentacles, Verbal Humiliation, angst ending, horrific visions, smut with angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegwynn/pseuds/Aegwynn
Summary: Horrific Visions AU. Black Emperor Wrathion knew what would happen when he disobeyed his King. He did it anyway. Now he must take his punishment.
Relationships: Arator the Redeemer/Anduin Wrynn, Black Emperor Wrathion/Void King Anduin Wrynn, Wrathion & Anduin Wrynn, Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Visions of the Void [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710349
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Emperor's Punishment

The Black Emperor Wrathion waited, naked and alone, chained to the floor of the Void King’s throne room. The stone beneath his thighs was cold, but he knew better than to expect any comforts this time.

The King had warned him of the dangers of defiance, but he had defied his King before he even realised what he was doing. He knew, of course, exactly what would happen when he spoke out of turn, but the words had slipped out regardless, and so here he sat – bare skin on bare stone, chained and awaiting his punishment.

The King always kept his promises. He didn’t have to wait long.

“On your knees.” The King’s voice echoed off the vaulted ceilings as he entered, and it sent a jolt of ice surging through Wrathion’s veins. Trembling, he immediately prostrated himself, forehead to the tiles, hands neatly laid atop each other out in front of him. He didn’t dare try to track the King with his eyes; instead, he clenched them closed and listened for the staccato _click_ of the King’s boots as he approached.

“I was feeling rather confident that what is left of the Kirin Tor would formally surrender today,” came the King’s voice from across the room. A rustle of fabric; the clink of metal on metal. “We have them cornered. They’ve seen what remains of those who cross us.”

 _Nothing but ash_ , thought Wrathion as he recalled the desolation of the last battlefield. Ashes and dust – he had incinerated them before they even knew what was coming and had delighted in how they cowered in the shadow of his magnificent wings.

“And yet,” the King continued, his footsteps drawing closer, “you dared open your mouth.” The chill in his tone seemed to leech all warmth from the air, sending a wave of gooseflesh prickling over Wrathion’s skin. In a few measured steps, the King closed the remaining distance between them, and by the time the cool leather of the King’s boot nudged against his forehead, Wrathion was openly shivering.

“Sit up, whelp,” the King said, though Wrathion knew better than to look upon him while he was angry. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he rose to his knees, even when the King knelt down in front of him, studying his face. He could feel – more than he could see – the King’s disapproval; his thin, plush lips turned downward in a pout that was all the more inviting. He hated to see his King frown, wishing instead to feel those lips against his skin if it would please him more. Anything to please him; _anything,_ so long as he did not look upon him with disinterest.

“You may look on me,” the King said softly, his voice laced with lethal calm, but Wrathion waited until the King slid a gentle finger under his chin and guided his face upwards. Even then, Wrathion only permitted his eyes to trace the edges of the King’s open collar, drinking in the pale column of his throat where it disappeared beneath the white silk of his shirt. Heart pounding, he lifted his gaze upwards to the strong lines of the King’s jaw, then savouring the softness of his lips, parted slightly as he stared at him, and then finally up to meet his eyes. And those eyes – they could be cold, so cold and cruel… yet when they looked at him with approval, they could have him raze cities and destroy entire civilizations.

And he had.

“You know what happens when you don’t listen to me, you mindless fool.” The admonition stung, but Wrathion enjoyed the soft sound of approval he earned as he nodded and let his eyes fall to the floor. Yes, he knew well what would happen – so much so that he had come to crave it, to the point that simply being commanded to kneel was enough to get his heart racing.

“Good.” The King rose to his feet in one swift movement, and Wrathion shuddered in anticipation, pert nipples standing on edge, cock already beginning to swell. He kept his hands crossed over his lap to shield his arousal; it was important he not appear too eager. Still, his sizeable length was not easily concealed, and it drew a mirthless laugh from the King’s lips.

“Look at you,” the cooed, caressing the dragon’s cheek. “Already hard like the filthy slut you are, and I haven’t even begun.”

Heat rose in Wrathion’s cheeks as the King let his hand fall and ascended the steps to his throne. His cheek tingled where the King’s fingers had touched him, and it took all he had in him to keep his composure as the King surveyed him – taking his measure, weighing his options.

“What shall I do with you?” the King mused, pursing his lips as he seated himself and crossed one leg over the other. “Perhaps you are already enjoying this too much. I ought to leave you here to wither.”

 _No, not alone – not again._ A chill ran up his spine. It was cold here – so cold – and he didn’t know how much longer he could endure it alone. Every muscle in Wrathion’s body clenched as he fought to remain impassive, subdued. _Please. I need this._

“Hmm.” The King tapped a finger on the burnished gold encasing the arms of his throne. “So many possibilities.”

But only one that Wrathion desired above all others. Only one that he envisioned when he lay awake in the dead of night. Heart pounding, Wrathion’s eyes flicked over the King’s legs and surveyed the throne on which he sat. There, nestled beside his thigh, was a long, thin velvet box with silver clasps – the riding crop. He couldn’t fight the shiver of pleasure that ran through him, or the way it made his cock – now fully hard – throb.

The King must have noticed, for a wicked grin spread across his face. “Ah, yes,” he said, rising from his throne. “You are, as always, pathetically transparent.” He approached Wrathion in measured steps, and Wrathion immediately stared down at the floor, but the King allowed his gaze to roam over the dragon’s body. Then, remarkably, Wration felt himself being lifted from the floor, the chains around his neck and wrists falling free, only to be replaced by cold, slick tendrils slithering over his limbs as they raised him up, up, until he was at eye level with the King.

“Look at me, dragon,” the King commanded. He did as his King demanded, but nothing could have prepared him for the loathing he found in the King’s eyes. He didn’t dare to even breathe as his King drew closer, so close that he could feel the Void energy emanating from him like waves of the sea washing over his skin. “You will watch me for the entirety of this punishment. If you break my gaze for any reason, that will be it – I will throw you back into the hovel in which I found you, and you can rot, for all I care.”

A lump formed in Wrathion’s throat and he tried to swallow it down. Then the King began removing his gloves finger by finger, slowly teasing them off his slender hands while he locked eyes with Wrathion. The dragon was transfixed, trembling, enthralled by the sight of the flesh beneath the gloves – so soft and supple beneath the fabric, unmarred and pristine. _Please,_ he thought, _please put those hands on me – I want them on me –_

Without realising what he was doing, Wrathion parted his lips, but he had barely even uttered a sound before the King silenced him with a slap to the face. “You will keep your mouth shut and take what I see fit to give you,” the King hissed.

Wrathion’s world reeled; pinpoints of light shimmered at the edges of his vision as he tried to maintain his hold on consciousness. Still, all he could feel was the sweetness of his King’s touch against his cheek. Truly, he had come to crave that contact regardless of whether it came as a gentle caress or a burning slap across the face – anything to feel the softness of his King’s skin against his own.

“You will remain silent for the duration of this punishment,” the King said, venom dripping from every word he uttered. A second later, another void tendril slithered around Wrathion’s neck, coiling itself around his jaw as it plunged into his mouth and silenced him. “Your filthy mouth got you into this mess; it is only fitting that I require your silence as punishment.” Instinctively, he fought against his bonds, but then the tendrils binding his arms and legs tightened, splaying him out into an uncomfortable position and suspending him in the air just above his King.

Tears pricked at the corner of Wrathion’s eyes as a tendril gently caressed his jaw. “You understand, don’t you?” said the King, the abject hatred in his eyes giving way to a coy little simper. “All I require is your compliance. Surely that isn’t so difficult.”

Wrathion tried to shake his head, but that only plunged the tendril deeper into his mouth. He gagged and coughed as the King turned his back and returned to the throne, removing the long, thin box and setting it on one of the arms. The click of a metal lock; the sigh of velvet on velvet – the King then opened the box to reveal his riding crop, lying there on a bed of silk. He happily showed it off to the dragon, sliding slender fingers over the ebony lacquer, laughing as he watched Wrathion’s cock twitch in response.

“You can’t even control your urges,” he said with a chuckle. “You’re little better than an animal.”

Shame burned hot on Wrathion’s cheeks, head drooping as his eyes fell to the floor. “No,” snarled the King. “Eyes on me.” A tendril wound itself through Wrathion’s hair, taking hold as it pulled the dragon’s head back and forced his face upward. “Good dragon,” the King cooed, and Wrathion’s heart swelled. “Now – ”

He watched as a mixture of surprise and confusion washed over the King’s face, panicking for a moment as he desperately hoped he had not done something to dissuade his King. Then the King’s features settled into a devious grin and let out a gleeful cackle. “Ah, yes!” he laughed. “I see we have a visitor. Now, filth, we must not neglect our guest.”

The grin on his King’s face was positively wicked, and Wrathion finally understood why when he heard a faint, “Hello?” echo through the corridor behind him.

The half-elf. Of course.

It was impossible for Wrathion to have his King to himself without that meddlesome little TWINK interfering. He hated the way his King’s face lit up as the paladin entered the throne room proper. _He_ should be the cause of his joy; _he_ should be the one to see those beautiful features illuminate again as they had in life –

“Come, Arator,” said the King, extending a hand to the paladin as a smile crept across his lips. It was eerie, unnatural; Wrathion realised it had been so very long since he had last seen the King show any genuine emotion other than grim displeasure. He clenched his fists as his King beckoned the paladin forth with a finger. “Perhaps you might help me. You see,” he said, holding out a hand towards Wrathion, “our dear Emperor’s folly has denied me a great victory. Of course, I cannot let such an insult stand; the dragon must learn his place.”

Wrathion hated the way the paladin’s eyes roamed over his body, curious but cautious, with a slight hint of approval. “Of course, my King,” he said, turning his attention back to the glorious creature on the throne. “Anything you wish.”

That only made the King’s smile grow even larger. “I had so hoped you would say that,” he said with sickening sweetness. Then, “But you have had a long journey. Please, remove your armour and make yourself comfortable. I’ve something to show you.”

Every pore of Wrathion’s body stood on edge as he watched the King removed the riding crop from its box and brandish it with flourish. He then pointed it at the dragon and descended the steps. “I had originally thought to simply deliver the punishment, but now, I fear this degenerate might enjoy it a bit too much.” Arator’s pauldrons hit the floor with a _clang_ , but Wrathion’s eyes were trained on his King, on the elegant lines of his fine, lithe arms and dextrous fingers. “As you can see, he is eager and,” the king paused to sneer, “positively dripping.”

Arator blushed as he stepped out of his chausses and went to work unlatching his greaves, eyes darting over to the dragon and taking in his shame. Wrathion hated himself for it, but the King still dangled the promise of the crop – the sharp, sweet bite of it against his skin, the stinging ecstasy it left in its wake – like a prize in front of him and he couldn’t help himself. He moaned around the tendril stuffed in his mouth, which drew the ire of his King again.

“ _Silence_.” The tendrils binding Wrathion’s arms and leg tightened yet again, and he squirmed involuntarily but fell silent.

He hated the way the King’s expression warmed when he looked at the paladin. “Now,” the King said, turning to Arator as he set the last of his armour on the floor, “I’m wondering if you might help me demonstrate.”

The paladin froze. “I – I beg your pardon?”

The King offered another sickeningly sweet smile. “Take off your clothes, my morning sun. I’ll be gentle.”  
  
_My morning sun_. The endearment stung as if he had been slapped. He could feel it rising within him – the rage, searing hot in the pit of his stomach, his chest. Still, he clenched his fists and willed himself to remain silent, even as tears pricked his eyes, even as his lungs screamed for air.

When the paladin had stripped, the King sighed happily, cocking his head to the side as he took him in. “Wonderful,” he said, tapping the riding crop on his other hand. “Now, come, brace yourself on the arms of the throne and bend over.”

No, not this – anything but this. This was _his_ punishment, he had _earned_ it, and the meddlesome firefly had done nothing save show up at an inopportune time. He couldn’t bear to watch as the King slowly ran the crop down one of the paladin’s arms, pausing to caress his cheek with the smooth leather tip. “Good boy.” Then, smiling deviously at Wrathion, he trailed the crop down the length of Arator’s spine, daring to slide the tip between the cleft of Arator’s cheeks, which drew a surprised gasp from the paladin’s lips.

“Now,” the King began, tapping the crop atop Arator’s ass, “When I tire of permitting this _filth_ to sully my keep, I could do one of many things: I could banish him, which frees me of the nuisance; I could punish him, so he learns never to cross me; or I could indulge him. Sometimes, the degenerate’s mind is so twisted that he mistakes punishment for indulgence, and I must employ some creativity.” The King tossed Wrathion a smile as he cupped one of Arator’s cheeks with a hand, gaging the dragon’s reaction. Though he remained silent, Wrathion tried to focus all of his anger at the paladin in a gaze that would kill if he had the ability. He realised too late that this was a horrible idea – for now his punishment took an agonising turn.

The King moved to stand next to Arator, gently stroking his hair as he slapped his ass once with the riding crop. The paladin cried out, bleating like a pathetic lamb, but the King reassured him before striking him a second time. To Wrathion’s distaste, he noted that the paladin was growing hard.

“I think,” said the King as he trailed the riding crop back up Arator’s body, “we’ve found a fitting punishment.” Wrathion finally understood – Arator was to be his punishment, not his beloved crop, and the realisation had him biting down on the tendril in his mouth to keep from howling in rage. The King smiled again at the paladin before swatting his side, and Wrathion hated the affection – real or imagined – that he saw in his eyes. Again, Arator yelped, and again, the King soothed him, this time coaxing him into a standing position so Wrathion could get a good view of his half-hard cock.

The paladin was beet red from the tip of his ears to his chest, but the King murmured some soft words to him as he ran his hands down his abdomen, fingers tracing the ridges of his lean muscle. Wrathion would have given anything to hear what he was saying, to feel what the paladin was feeling. His arousal withered as he watched the paladin enjoy those hands – those soft, elegant hands – which should have been _his_ , _had_ been _his_ …

A single tear slipped down his cheek. “Dear Emperor,” said the King with mock sincerity, tearing himself away from the paladin at last. “No longer enjoying yourself? What a pity.” The King came to stand just in front of Wrathion, staring up into his eyes with an intensity that bordered on disturbing. Tapping the riding crop on his other hand, he frowned. “I wonder,” he said, his eyes drinking in the expanse of Wrathion’s exposed body. “I quite like you like this – pliant and submissive. Perhaps I shall reward you in the end.” Then, with a wicked smile, he flicked one of Wrathion’s nipples with the crop, sending a tremor of pleasure coursing through the dragon. Enjoying that, the King then trailed the crop down the dragon’s torso, then up one of his thighs, hovering in the air just below his cock.

“While I have you,” the King continued, “I think I’ll see the rest of your punishment through.” Wrathion choked down a moan as the King trailed the tip of the crop up the length of his cock, his touch feather-light and intoxicating. He then drew closer, looking up into the dragon’s eyes, and Wrathion tried to convey his desperation as the King’s slender fingers slid around his cock, enjoying the drops of pre-cum leaking from the slit. Wrathion didn’t dare move; he simply kept the King’s gaze, even as the King touched his forefinger to his cock’s head and brought it to his lips, gently lapping the fluid off with his tongue. It was enough to encourage the dragon back to full hardness, at which time the King smirked before turning his back and returning to the throne.

“Arator,” he said, beckoning the paladin forward as he seated himself. “I should like to reward your obedience. Come. Sit.” He held an arm out as he pulled Arator into his lap. The paladin draped his leg on either side of the King’s thigh, coyly leaning back as the King slid his hands over the paladin’s hips.

It was building again – the rage. Watching the King’s hands slide over Arator’s thighs, watching the paladin’s idiotic cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red, watching his cock swell as the King’s talented fingers stroked him – all of it enraged him. The worthless firefly had no idea how to appreciate the magnitude that was his King. He was so easily lulled with pretty words and elegant lies, but he would never stay once the charade was done. He would run like the coward he was. But _he_ would stay – the Emperor, proud and true, would stay with his King until the life seeped from his veins, even as the world crashed down.

Wrathion strained against his bonds, heart pounding as the heat spread through his body. The King locked eyes with him as he whispered hollow platitudes into the paladin’s ear, and Wrathion held his gaze even as tears of rage slipped out over his cheeks, even as Arator moaned and rocked his hips against his King, stealing pleasure that should never have been his. Wrathion’s own cock throbbed as he watched the King’s talented hands work the paladin closer to climax. He remembered those hands – soft, insistent, if a little cold; but he would warm them. He would warm the ice encasing his King’s heart, warm his chest, warm his lips until the heat devoured him and he felt _real_ again.

The paladin’s moans echoed off the stone walls as the King continued to stroke him, almost at a feverish pace; and Wrathion’s pulse pounded in his ears, heart thundering in his chest as the rage grew and grew, until every muscle in his body strained against the tendrils holding him fast, until searing heat flowed through every vein. But he remained silent – at least until the paladin at last gasped his release, and his King lovingly tilted his head to pull him into a tender kiss.

That was too much – the tenderness. _It should have been mine._ Rage burst forth from Wrathion as he roared around the tendril in his throat, the heat from his skin searing the tendrils binding his limbs until they receded and he fell to the floor with his cry of rage reverberating through the Keep.

His knees hit the floor with a _thud_ and he collapsed with the sound of the King’s laughter in his ears.

When he opened his eyes again, the Keep was dark and the throne was empty. He was alone and cold again, with no trace of his King and nothing to comfort him – so he lay in a heap on the floor, sobbing quietly to himself, vowing to do anything and everything to ensure he never displeased his King again.


End file.
